


Animal Arithmetic

by skuldchan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuldchan/pseuds/skuldchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John run with each other, and then fall for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal Arithmetic

Pounding footsteps echo across pavement, drowning out protests, the odd “Hey, watch where you’re going!” It sounds like the advance of an entire army, but only two figures emerge from around the corner. Puffs of condensed steam escape from their mouths as they draw panting breaths in the chill night air. Two pairs of feet hit concrete almost in unison, arms swinging, the winter wind whistling past their ears and stinging their faces.

Pedestrians scramble to get out of the way, pressing themselves flat against darkened shop windows, pulling their coats or their bags in tightly. Heads turn as the two men race past, curious, expectant eyes peering into the darkness in the direction from whence they came. But there is no pursuit, no indication of what might have set these men off a-running, just a clear corridor of confused faces that is filled in again as quickly as it was parted. The murmur of strolling voices resumes unhindered, the spectacle of two men barreling down the sidewalk seemingly unremarkable, the clucks of disapproval already forgotten.

Sherlock has the lead. He is tall, thin, and his dark coat sometimes seems to swallow everything below his waist, but now it’s billowing behind him, caught in the air and he races down the sidewalk—floating, flying. John, a few steps behind him, follows dutifully because he has no idea where he is or where he’s going, but already he trusts Sherlock to know.

They make a turn and John finds himself surrounded by the already familiar Baker Street. Sherlock slows as he passes Speedy’s, coming to a full stop in front of the door to 221b. He whips the keys out quickly and John slams the door behind them. They hang up their clothes in the entranceway and collapse against the wall, chests heaving, gasping. Sherlock’s pale cheeks are flush, the only splash of color on his face beside the hue of his eyes.

“That was ridiculous,” gasps John. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

They laugh together, almost giggle, their heads bowed, catching their breath. John can tell that it’s been a long time since either of them has felt so vital, that it’s been a long time since either of them has well and truly laughed. John can’t deny the heady rush of adrenaline—it feels good to run alongside this man, even if sometimes he can’t quite keep up.

***

“How’s the calorie counting?”

“Just right,” Mycroft replies. “I’m touched by your concern for my continued well-being.”

Sherlock snorts, narrows his eyes, resenting the fact that his brother happened to call when John was out on a grocery errand.

“You’ve been looking better these days,” Mycroft says. He points with the end of his umbrella. “Does John make you smile that often? It’s written all over your face.”

Sherlock rises from the armchair, marches to the door and opens it, gesturing for his brother to leave.

“My, my,” Mycroft says. “Touched a rather sensitive nerve have I? Stop pretending, Sherlock. You know I know you better than you know yourself.”

The Baker Street door opens with a rustle of plastic. Mycroft’s lips break into a thin smile as he pulls himself to his feet. “I’ll leave the two of you to it, then. Good day, John.”

“Hi,” John says as he makes his way up the stairs, two grocery bags in each hand. “Uh…”

“He’s just on his way out,” Sherlock says at the top of stairs, glaring at his brother to contradict him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your peaceful domesticity,” Mycroft replies. “Goodbye.”

John raises his eyebrows as Sherlock closes the door behind him. He knows better than to ask what sort of exchanges go on between the brothers.

***

Sherlock is lovesick. He knows what it’s like—theoretically, that is—he’s well enough read on the nature of human relationships to understand that people love, people stray, people have desires and needs and wants, and they get bored. Sherlock would like to think that he’s above people, but he knows he gets bored too, and so just like everyone else, he might also have needs and wants.

The desire seeps in slowly, a gradual invasion of his above-peopleness. He detests the fact that Mycroft noticed it first, wasted no time in pointing it out. It irks Sherlock to no end, that Mycroft knows him and lords it above it him. It always has, all the way back to the days when they were just schoolboys.

He searches his brain for scenes in the past—laughter, smiles, smirks. He knows now why he was so annoyed when John decided to go on that first date with that Sarah woman. He knows why he sometimes sulks when John is at his job, when John leaves and doesn’t tell him where he’s going. Sherlock is lovesick for Dr. John Watson, a man somehow more than the sum of St. Bart’s, Afghanistan, and a healthy thirst for getting into trouble. Sherlock isn’t interested in people, but he is interested in John. And John should be people, but he just can’t bring himself to admit that. Mycroft might be smarter, more clever, Mycroft might be loved more by Mummy, but when John is around, Sherlock feels that it’s all right. Mycroft can bugger off if he wants, and Mummy can take her puzzles and her favoritism games and shove them—he has John, and John makes him feel like he doesn’t need to prove that he’s clever or that he’s alive. John makes him feel like he already is.

***

The fall is slow, but eventually John turns around. Sherlock suspects that John is like him—not the brightest self-evaluator. They walk, run, smile together. They eat, talk, idle together. They almost died together, and certainly would have had Mycroft not appeared in the nick of time, raining special ops fury upon the swimming pool and Moriarty’s men. The consulting criminal managed to escape, a black mark on Sherlock’s otherwise impeccable record. He was still out there, and while Sherlock worked what little leads he had to track him down, he worked too on John.

Late night telly is on, the usual rubbish. The sound is muted, but Sherlock can tell what’s happening anyway. While the audience and the guests argue it out, shouting, screaming, gesticulating wildly, Sherlock stares at his computer. He looks across the table to John, who is reading a smallish paperback held in one hand. On the telly, somebody throws a punch. The audience cheers raucously, getting up off their seats, their fists pumping the air.

John’s hand moves to reach for a cup of tea; Sherlock intercepts it. Their hands fall with a dull thud on the wooden tabletop. John licks his lips before he speaks.

“Sherlock. You realize you’re holding my hand.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to get you your own cup of tea?”

Sherlock shakes his head, ever so slightly. “No,” he replies. He realizes he’s sitting forward, he’s staring at John, his mouth slightly open. Any moment, he might say “oh.” He might have the same look on his face as when he’s figured something out, when he’s careened down the logic path and found the only answer that fits all of the evidence. He might be ready to spring up and tackle John right there in their sitting room, Mrs. Hudson below be damned.

Realization dawns on John. His eyes unfocus, his breath hitches. He’s known this for a long time, but has been doing his best to keep it out of his mind. He teeters on the edge of indecision, a blink, a flicker of his eyes brings his gaze to meet Sherlock’s, and in them Sherlock sees the barest spark of supplication.

Sherlock prods the thought process along in the only way he knows how. “When was the last time you had sex?” he asks.

John rolls his eyes skywards, closes them for a moment. His lips purse, biting back words he doesn’t want to say. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “Can’t remember anymore, but I wish I could.”

“Then let’s—“

“Sherlock. Hold on, what—why…why are you asking me?”

Sherlock takes a breath. His chest tightens, his voice comes out quiet. “I was hoping you’d have already deduced that by yourself.”

“Oh no, I’m your flatmate. I don’t want us to regret this in the morning,” John says. Sherlock wonders how he manages to keep his voice so steady—must be that military training.

“Us?”

“Me. Me, okay? Me.” John sighs. “I don’t want to regret this in the morning.”

Sherlock studies him, can’t help it. But there must be something different about his gaze, because John isn’t put off by it, John doesn’t bristle like he’s being scrutinized like some cadaver lying on a slab. Sherlock figures there’s just as much need, that he’s reflecting just as much entreaty in his gaze as John is just barely starting to acknowledge.

“Will you really?” Sherlock presses.

There’s a moment before John answers. He smiles wryly, looks away. He snorts, sits back in his chair. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.” He almost laughs and then brings his gaze to meet Sherlock’s again. He sits up straight, steeling himself for the inevitable truth. “I doubt it.”

They rise from the table. Maybe they stood facing each other, almost awkwardly before something between them breaks. It’s hard to tell who makes the first move, but they meet somewhere, eyes closed, mouths pressed together. Breathing is boring, but when they part, Sherlock finds himself needing a breath.

He might even have said something as mundane, as pedestrian as “Oh god, John.”

There’s a brief silence, a pause in the new discovery as the two of them look at the couch. They consider it seriously for a moment, but dismiss it from their minds. Cushions, the coffee table would just get in the way. They practically dash upstairs, unbuttoning buttons, shedding clothes. Beds are dull, banal, thoroughly uncreative, but Sherlock thinks nothing of it; he’s busy tugging at John’s trousers, they can’t hit the floor fast enough.

Sherlock has researched this, like he’s researched everything else and committed it to his memory, cold and clinical. But memory has fled him, and he can’t recall the techniques anymore, the advice on forums he’s read. He just moves, like he knows already what to do.

John squeezes his arse, hard, and Sherlock hasn’t wanted anything in his entire life as badly as he wants John, right here, right now. He can’t stand the delay, the fact that his underwear is still on, just one more obnoxious barrier between him and John. Frustrated, he tears them off before John gets to them, chucking them clear across the room. Briefly, he wonders if John’s noticed that they’re the same brand as the one that Moriarty wore as “Jim from I.T.,” but then he’s flipped over onto his stomach, John biting his shoulder. If this is sexual desire, then Sherlock wants more, he wants to be drunk on it, he wants to sink into it and drown and never rise to the surface again.

John claws his spine, squeezes his side, teeth, lips, nose, all along his back. “Oh,” Sherlock gasps, an outburst, a thrilling realization. He wants John’s weight all over him, he wants John to sidle up behind him, mark him, bite him, leave bruises on his skin. He wants to be pressed into the bed, and really live, revel in the lust that’s overtaken him, the feelings he’s read about in such detail but has yet to experience, understand, until now.

Sherlock almost sighs when John envelops him, leaning on him, breaths hot against his ear. He says nothing, but his actions speak enough, one hand on Sherlock’s chest, the other reaching around to grasp his cock. Sherlock closes his eyes, his mouth dropping silently as John runs his thumb up Sherlock’s length, lingering at the underside of the tip.

“You know what they say in the army?” he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Something about buggery, no doubt.”

“You don’t need to be gay to give your brother-in-arms a handjob.”

Sherlock smiles. He turns his head, to regard to John behind him. He finishes John’s sentence. “But it helps.”

It feels like they’re at it all night. Sherlock comes into the sheets, and John wraps his fingers in his hair, tells him to clean it up. Sherlock obeys, the only way he knows that will turn John on—with his tongue. They explore each other all night, fingers, mouths, noses—like they’re animals. Sherlock has always figured he was above animal, too calculating, too logical, mathematical, even. He makes a mental note to forgive himself the occasional lapse.

There’s an alarm clock in the room on the bedstand, but Sherlock doesn’t even bother looking when they finally collapse. John drops off, exhausted. The sleeping-after-sex type, Sherlock observes. He’ll remember that, always. John drifts off to sleep, snoring slightly, but Sherlock stays awake, eyes wide with interest. He feels with his fingertips the scar tissue on John’s shoulder, he caresses the skin with his hands, touching lightly the hollow of the small of John’s back. He memorizes the shadow in bed beside him, the sound of his breathing, the way he shifts around restlessly.

A small smile crosses Sherlock’s face as he settles himself back in the pillows in preparation for sleep. It feels good to lie alongside this man, he muses, even if sometimes it takes a while for him to catch up.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is dedicated to my friend, Marcus, who magnanimously watched "A Study in Pink," with me tonight and ended up loving it. He's also served in the Army. The Swedish Army, but it's an army! Oh yeah, and he's an army doctor to boot.


End file.
